A/N: I just realized the halfway point of this story snuck past me unnoticed. I was thinking it was this chapter, but it was actually the previous one. Not a big deal, just wanted to mention it. And holy moly, y'all really don't like Beth Anne, I see. XD This might be the first time I've inspired murder with a fictional character, lol. Btw, I can still read all the reviews in my email, even though this jank-ass site is broken and not showing them in the review section. Thanks for all the comments on chapter 19! Putting a TW on this chapter for a scene of dissociation. /TW Happy reading. We're getting to my favorite part(s) of this story, guys—especially the chapters after this one. Are you excited?! I'm excited!

CHAPTER 20: Trouble in Paradise

. . .

For several moments, they stared blankly at each other, Amanda bracing herself against the door as if she were barricading it, Olivia standing back awkwardly, elbows gripped in her hands, still leaning down to Beth Anne's height. She straightened gradually, but kept a protective hold on both arms, tucking them in tight at her waist and angling her body to one side. It occurred to her that it was the same stance she had used during arguments with Serena, when she tried to avoid being swung at or grabbed. She hastily let her arms fall to her sides and squared her shoulders. Try as she might, though, she couldn't unclench her fingers from the cell phone that felt soldered to her hand.

"What did she say to you?" Amanda asked, finally leaving her post at the door and coming to Olivia, gathering her hands, freeing the cell phone from their white-knuckled grip. She dropped it into the pocket of her robe and guided Olivia by her wrists towards the living room.

The children had wandered back to their artwork after bidding Beth Anne farewell. They stopped to observe now, as Amanda all but picked up Olivia and set her down on the sofa like she was no older than they. The blonde squatted in front of her, reaching for her mistreated cheek without touching it, wincing as she repeated, "What'd she say? Tell me."

"Nothing. It's not important." Olivia glanced past Amanda to the kids. She smiled at them, though it hurt to do so. Jesse happily resumed coloring, but Noah watched every move Amanda made, from lightly tilting Olivia's chin up with her fingertips to examine the redness to clenching her jaw in anger at whatever damage she'd discovered. She retracted her hand with a wounded expression when Olivia shied from the touch, not wanting him to see. The only thing more shameful than getting slapped across the face was that look in other people's eyes when they knew.

God help her, Olivia Benson would not be looked at that way by her son.

Following Olivia's gaze, Amanda caught on to the problem and spoke over her shoulder to the boy. "Hey, bud, why don't you go wet a cold washcloth for your mommy?"

"She's my mom," Noah said, and used the black crayon in his hand to scrawl MOM across his drawing in bold capital letters.

"I'm fine." Olivia waved off the request, hoping to curb the tension building up between Noah and Amanda. Normally they were the best of friends, always giggling over some inside joke or another, and finding new and appalling ways to gross out Olivia. (The most recent was daring each other to eat out of the dogs' dishes.) She hated that their relationship was being disrupted on her account. "I don't need a—"

"Go, son," Amanda said sharply, snapping her fingers and pointing towards the bathroom without a glance around. "You go on with him, Jesse. No sassin'."

"I'm not your son," Noah muttered. But he dropped his crayon heavily on the paper and took Jesse's hand when she scrambled up to obey her mother's gruff command. They trudged off to the bathroom together, dispirited and pitiful-looking in their rumpled Christmas jammies with their unbrushed hair.

"Wring it out good," Amanda called after them in a voice more suited for the bullpen than a joyful family gathering around the Christmas tree. Frannie scurried off to join the kids, ears flat against her head, tail tucked in. "Don't bring it back in here dripping all over the place."

Olivia stared fixedly at Amanda until she was done barking orders. She hadn't seen this side of the detective before—Amanda could be loud and short-tempered during lovers' quarrels, yes, but never with the kids—and she didn't much like it. "You didn't have to yell at them. It's Christmas, for God's sake. They're children."

"That wasn't yellin'." Amanda rolled her eyes, the expression on her face making it clear she thought Olivia was overreacting. "Y'all haven't heard yelling unless you've sat at the top of stairs, listening to the two biggest assholes in Loganville having it out over where to hide the Christmas presents."

Y'all haven't heard yelling . . .

("You monster!")

("I'll never let anyone else have you!")

("You're lucky I even raised you at all, you ungrateful little bitch.")

"I know damn well what it's like to be yelled at," Olivia said, unable to speak above a whisper, for fear of what might come out. A quiver, a sob, a scream. Or just words she could never take back. Those were worst of all. "And I've taken hits a hell of a lot harder than what your mother can dish out. Don't you ever tell me I don't know what it's like."

Amanda almost seemed to deflate, her entire demeanor transforming in front of Olivia's eyes. Her complexion drained so thoroughly of color, it matched the white in her pajamas. Even her hair lost a bit of its sunny gleam, hanging flat and dull around her pallid cheeks, the same shade as wheat. The only thing that didn't change was her eyes; they remained bluer than the deepest ocean and more magnetic than the tide. Olivia easily could have been swept in, and lost, had she not averted her gaze. "I didn't mean—"

"You should call a cab for your mother," Olivia said with finality, turning her face away from Amanda as well, the sore cheek hidden from view. She focused her attention on Gigi, who had inched her way from the opposite end of the sofa a little at a time until she could rest her chin on Olivia's thigh. Olivia had been stroking the golden retriever's head without realizing it—for how long, she couldn't say. "Use my phone. You can read the texts from Alex while you're at it."

"Aw Christ, here we go." Amanda tried to push onto her feet from the squatting position, a move she normally could have executed with ease. But now she grunted softly and clutched at her abdomen, the other hand going to Olivia's knee for balance. She removed it quickly once she found her footing, and stood. "I don't want to read your goddamn texts from goddamn Alex. If you wanna go out with her for New Year's, I ain't gonna stop you. Hell, if you wanna screw her again for old times' sake, be my guest. She can be your freebie."

"My free— oh my God." Olivia gave an incredulous huff of laughter, absent any humor, and gazed up at the ceiling as if she might find a reprieve somewhere above her; that hand up Amanda had just needed, but Olivia had been unable to offer. Gigi whined and licked the fingers she was digging into her own thigh. "How many times do I have to tell you, I never slept with her? I never even kissed her. She was my friend, Amanda. Jesus. And you wonder why I didn't want to tell you she'd called."

"So, you were hiding it then," Amanda said with something like satisfaction. Except she was shaking her head in disgust when she took the cell phone from her pocket, spinning it round and round between her fingers, jabbing it end over end against her hip. "For how long?"

Feeling suddenly despondent and just wanting the argument to be over, Olivia shrugged weakly. "What does it matter? I'll text her back later and tell her I'm— we're not coming." She finally released the clamplike grip on her leg when Gigi nosed underneath her arm, peering up with sad brown eyes that perfectly reflected how Olivia felt inside—small, worried, needy. Everything she had felt at five, at ten, at fifteen, and sometimes even now, in her fifties; all those years when she couldn't understand why her mother didn't love her. All that heartache.

"It matters. My fiancée's been lying to me for, what, a week? Two?" Amanda began to peck at the phone screen with her fingertip. She glanced back and forth between Olivia and the cell, swiping and scrolling and peck-peck-pecking. "Was it before I got shot? While I was laid up in that hospital bed? Come on, Liv, I wanna know."

As the phone dialed out, ringing hollowly on the other end, Olivia tried to catch her breath. Gigi was whining softly and letting out tiny yips more suited to a small breed puppy than a fully grown golden retriever. The dog sensed oncoming anxiety attacks better than Olivia ever could.

Even as the thought occurred, her heartbeat quickened and a heavy weight settled onto her chest, forcing the air from her lungs. Stomach in knots, brain pulsating in its skull. Each throb was perfectly timed to the ticking of her watch. Amanda was talking to
( . . . Alex?)
the cab company, but she sounded far away, the words so confusing they might as well have been a foreign language. (Swedish, perhaps, to go with that white-blonde) was staring at Olivia strangely, a red specter as she paced in her long robe. With no feet she looked like she was

Floating. Olivia was floating up near the ceiling, watching herself on the couch, struggling to

Breathe. But the duct tape made it so hard to ("Take a breath, goddammit!") and she couldn't think because of the
(vodka and pills and GHB and)
pounding in her head. God, that pounding and the ticking and ("I can see why your mama didn't love you"). It was driving her so crazy she could blow her own brains out just to make it

(Click.)

"Thanks, bye." Amanda ended the call and looked to Olivia expectantly, as if there had been no interruption at all. She did appear a little less worked up than before—from what Olivia's jumbled thoughts and blurred vision could make out of her, at least—but she still crossed her arms and waited. "Well?"

Counting backwards from five, Olivia grounded herself with the technique she'd learned long before Dr. Lindstrom and William Lewis; it dated back to the Lowell Harris years and her second attempt at therapy.

Identify five things you can see: Amanda, red, phone, Gigi, watch. Four you can touch: fur, ears, wet nose, paws. Three you can hear: panting, ticking, water running. Two you can smell: Turkey, a burning casserole. One you can taste: blood from biting her lip.

"She— she, um, called that night," Olivia said, and breathed in deeply through her nose, savoring the rush of air into her lungs. She exhaled it shakily, slowly, with barely enough force to blow the fluff off a dandelion. She didn't want Amanda to see her huffing and puffing in the middle of an argument. Not only because it was a sign of her own weakness, but also because she didn't want to win a fight that way. By being the damsel in distress. She was so goddamn tired of always needing.

"What night?" Though the question had come out gruff, demanding, the detective eyed her for a moment and grudgingly added, "You all right?"

No, she really wasn't. She could breathe now and the strange, frightening feeling of unreality had passed, but she was still quivering inside, heart and head pounding. She tried to concentrate on stroking Gigi's fur, on letting the repetitive motion and the dog's soft, cream-colored coat soothe her. Sometimes it worked better than others. This was not one of those times. She hadn't dissociated quite that badly since the hotel room, her hands bound to that unfamiliar bed, her mind replaying every single assault while Amanda unknowingly repeated the words of her rapists.

Good girl. Nice girl. Rapists. Church.

Olivia hated that damn number game. "I'm fine," she said, gritting her teeth once the lie was out. She hated liars too.

"Oh, 'course you are. You're always fine, aren't you?" Amanda scoffed. It lacked some of her previous vehemence, but sure as hell didn't hurt any less.

The thing about Amanda Rollins was that she liked to fight, enough so that she sometimes instigated arguments or perpetuated them when they started to wane. Olivia had known it long before they ever became romantically involved—she'd witnessed the blonde ripping into Amaro, Carisi, and even Fin once in a while, and she'd been on the receiving end herself a few times at work. She attributed it to a childhood spent in a home where violence and constant bickering were the norm. Naturally that instilled a combative spirit in a kid, just as growing up with an alcoholic mother instilled familiarity and ease with another type of spirit. It was the comfort food they turned to when things were tough; it was the poison becoming the cure.

She tried to make allowances for her fiancée's issues—God knew Amanda made plenty of allowances for hers. But right now Olivia could not tolerate provocation or insults. "What the hell do you want from me, Amanda?" She lifted her hands in a helpless gesture, then dropped them back against Gigi. Goddammit if they weren't still shaking. "You're already convinced I'm a liar and a cheater, so I don't see what good explaining myself will do. You want an exact date and time? She called me that night we were shopping at the mall, right after you went out to the car. So, what was that, like, the thirteenth, around 6:30 PM? Is that specific enough for you?"

Olivia expected anger, retaliation, accusations that she had deliberately snuck around to play kissy-face over the phone with Alex (had she?), but instead Amanda looked suddenly ill. Her color waned again and she became very interested in the blank screen of Olivia's cell phone. She jiggled her leg beneath the fluffy robe, her knee batting at the material like a small animal trapped in a sack. A kitten taken to the river to be drowned.

Where Olivia had gone too far, she wasn't sure. Had it been her hard, unrelenting tone or just her bitchy attitude that caused the hurt she saw on Amanda's face? Or maybe her detective truly did believe she was nothing more than a liar and a cheater. And could Olivia really blame her? No matter how much she denied it, there had been something between her and Alex. Another lifetime ago, another Olivia Benson—young, eager, and so alone. It was before most of the assaults, when Olivia still believed she could walk through life unaffected by the past, the present, or anything yet to come; before she had realized you had to hold onto the ones who mattered most, otherwise they left you like all the rest.

That Olivia had wanted Alex Cabot badly. It had almost been humorous: the tough, take-no-prisoners detective, so smitten with and intimidated by the posh and willowy blonde attorney. She'd felt like a twelve-year-old again—desperate for love and attention, a kind word, a touch—whenever they spent time together. And they had gone on dates, though neither of them ever acknowledged that was what the dinners out, the nights at the theater, the coffees sipped while strolling arm-in-arm and laughing softly at nothing in particular, actually were.

This Olivia couldn't imagine her life with anyone else but Amanda. Cabot was fantasy; Amanda was reality, and she'd been there for Olivia in ways the sometimes-attorney never had and never could. She understood Olivia—her trauma, her pain, but most of all, her heart—better than Alex ever cared to. Alex barely scratched the surface, but Amanda went straight to the bone.

Even now, in the midst of so much turmoil, Olivia wanted her fiancée close to her, wanted to reach out with no fear of rejection. "I'm sorry," she said thinly, still too shaken from the anxiety attack to fully convey her sincerity. "I shouldn't have said it like that. I know— I know you think there's something between me and Alex, but there just isn't. Not anymore. I love you, Amanda. I want you."

The words didn't have their intended effect. As a matter of fact, Amanda looked even more upset than before. She was gripping the cell phone like she might suddenly rear back and hurl it against the wall. Her free hand was tucked protectively to her side, a habit she had formed in the wake of the shooting. "Liv, I . . . that night at the mall—"

"Are y'all still fighting?" asked a blunt little voice from behind Amanda, who turned abruptly to reveal their children peeking around the corner of the hallway. The speaker was Jesse, and she received a discouraging nudge from Noah. Matilda, rubbing the sleep from her eyes with a tiny fist, stood between them, fiery curls springing from her head in all directions.

"Mommy," the little girl declared, and toddled over to Olivia, raising her arms to be lifted onto the lap Gigi currently occupied. She had already clung primarily to Olivia before Amanda's injury, but after weeks of hearing that Mama couldn't pick her up, she now relied on Mommy for everything—especially cuddles. "Up hug."

"She's mad, Tilly, she doesn't want a hug," said Noah, lingering in the hall with a damp washcloth in his hands. It was still twisted into a pink, sluglike lump from being wrung out. There were large wet spots on the front of his pajama top and Jesse's nightgown.

Olivia had almost forgotten the pain in her cheek, thanks to the upheaval of emotion that followed the slap and the numbness from dissociating. It flared up now, the whole side of her face aching as she watched her two older children hang back with uncertainty. Or maybe that was just her heart. (How many times had she distanced herself from Serena like that, afraid to approach her while she was drunk as a skunk?)

"I'm not mad, sweetie," Olivia said gently, beckoning the children forward and nudging Gigi over to settle at her side. She cast an apologetic glance at Amanda, adding a meaningful, "At anyone."

The detective acknowledged the comment with a nod and a weak smile. "Yeah, c'mere, y'all." She dropped the cell phone back into her pocket, and though she still wasn't supposed to lift anything heavier than a cantaloupe, she scooped up Matilda, kissed her wild curls, and deposited her in Olivia's lap. "No one's fighting, y'hear? It's Christmas and we have to be nice, otherwise Santa will come back tonight and take away all these toys he brought ya."

"Nuh-uh!" cried Jesse, even as she gathered up an armload of gifts, preparing to stash them somewhere the jolly old elf would never find them. "He don't do that! Does he, Mommy?"

"No, honey, I think Mama's just pulling your leg," Olivia replied, hugging Matilda to her chest and practically melting as the child snuggled in, head tucked under her chin. Noah had been sweet and affectionate at this age, but busy and all boy; Jesse didn't hold still for more than a few seconds at a time. But Matilda was her mommy's little cuddle bug, always ready to give and receive love.

Noah had finally wandered into the room and right up to Amanda, thrusting the washcloth out at her with defiance. "You aren't nice. You're mean, and I heard you say bad words to my mom. Santa should take your presents too."

"Noah," Olivia began in a lightly scolding tone. She didn't want to correct him—not today, when he had already seen and heard too much—but she couldn't sit by and let him speak to Amanda that way, either. She knew firsthand just how hurtful his rejection could be. If they were ever going to be a happy, cohesive family, he had to accept Amanda as his parent too, not just his buddy and playmate. "Don't say—"

"No, Liv, it's okay." Amanda put her hand out, palm down, gently silencing the reprimand. She took the washcloth from Noah, turning it over in her hands several times and worrying the edges between her fingers. Though it must have pained her to do so—and she did wince a little at first—she lowered herself to one knee in front of the boy, meeting his sullen expression with a grave one of her own. "You're right, kid. I was being a jerk. I shouldn't have talked like that to you or your mom. I'm real sorry. Y'all aren't the ones I'm mad at."

"Who are you mad at?" Noah asked, more curious now than upset. He rocked his weight from foot to foot, using the momentum to inch closer to Amanda. When he was close enough, he let her hook an arm around his waist and pull him into a side hug.

"Is it Grammy?" Jesse guessed, busy trying to stuff her hands into the boxing gloves she had selected from the pile of toys scattered at her feet. Apparently she planned to challenge Santa to a match, should he return for her presents.

After a moment's hesitation, Amanda gave a light shrug. "It's . . . it's nobody, Jess. I just got mad. Forgive me?"

"Okay, Mama." Jesse went on throwing punches at the air, each jab too focused to be called willy-nilly. She had a definite target in mind. Santa would be wise to wear a cup next time he entered the Rollins-Benson household.

Turning back to Noah with a serious look that became sillier by the minute, Amanda asked, "Forgive me?" and puffed out her bottom lip until the little boy was giggling at her ridiculous, ever-expanding pout. "Pwetty pwease?"

"Okay, but don't make that face anymore." Try as he might to sound disgusted, Noah was laughing too hard to be convincing. He squirmed in Amanda's grasp as she puckered both lips to twice their normal size, making smoochy noises and squeaky inquiries ("What face?" "Give us a kiss?") while craning towards his retreating cheeks.

"Careful," Olivia warned, to no avail. She cringed during every twist and turn, half-expecting Amanda to let out a yelp of pain and drop to the floor clutching her abdomen. By the time the skirmish ended, Olivia was as out of breath as her son and fiancée.

"Hey, kid, help your ma— help me up, would ya?" Amanda extended her hand to Noah, who tugged it with all his strength, doing his best to hoist her upright. She did most of the work, but he beamed up at her proudly when she stood above him, ruffling his hair and smiling fondly. "Thanks, buddy."

Noah thought it over for a moment, shuffling his feet in a bashful manner, his hands clasped behind him. "You can call me son. I think I'll call you Ma," he said, then hurried off to draw more pictures, picking back up as if he had never left.

Outside of Olivia's own interaction with Noah, it was the first time she had witnessed such a sincere and loving resolution to conflict between a mother and child. Serena had seldom ever admitted any wrongdoing, and when she did apologize it was almost exclusively while under the influence. There were no playful kisses, no laughter. Nothing to reassure Olivia that her well-being mattered.

In that moment, she loved Amanda even more for giving that reassurance and security to her son. Their son.

"Here you go," Amanda said softly, when she perched on the arm of the sofa, folding the washcloth into a neat square. It was still too damp, wetting her fingers and the lap of her robe, but she paid no mind to the moisture as she worked. Ducking down for a closer look, she turned Olivia's face to the side and grimaced, her thumb compulsively strumming the jawline.

Amanda's features softened when Olivia caught her eye. "Here you go, darlin'," the detective murmured again, laying the cloth across Olivia's cheek with such tenderness it brought tears to her eyes. She'd never taken the time to care for a swollen, inflamed cheek before—at first, to assuage Serena's guilt by pretending she wasn't hurt, then as she got older, to prove how tough she was—but the cool compress did feel good. It occurred to her that the opposite must be true for Amanda; she knew what to do because she had grown up taking care of those same injuries. They were their mothers' daughters, and it seemed they always would be.

"Thank you," Olivia said, clasping the hand Amanda pressed against the washcloth. She cast a grateful look upward, into her fiancée's pretty, contrite face, and found only solace there. No trace of anger or mistrust. Just those blue eyes in which she sometimes thought she glimpsed eternity. "How's your stomach?"

"Eh, I'll live." Amanda was still studying Olivia up close, as if she expected to find another hurt, besides the one she was tending to. "Are you okay? That was a helluv—" Pausing, Amanda glanced down at Matilda, who listened to every word of their conversation, thumb planted securely in her mouth. "That was one heck of a wallop. Is your head okay?"

"I'll live," Olivia echoed, but received a skeptical look. She had promised to be more forthcoming about her feelings, especially if something bothered her or didn't feel right, and she'd put them both through the fire more than once by refusing to acknowledge pain. Opening herself up emotionally was still like getting blood from a stone sometimes, but she was trying. "It hurts a little. Mostly my face, though—not my head. The cold is helping."

She decided not to mention the anxiety attack. That could wait for another day. Sometime after Christmas, when the kids weren't in earshot. As if to prove Olivia's point, Jesse stopped in the middle of an intense imaginary bout, and asked, "What's a wallop? Is that like a wallaby? Did a wallaby hurt you, Mommy?"

"Jesse," Amanda groaned, signaling for the child to return to battle. "This is grownup talk. Go . . . fight Frannie or somethin'."

Olivia placed a calming hand on Amanda's knee and tipped her head imploringly. Their middle child's incessant questions could be taxing, but Olivia enjoyed the little girl's curiosity and unique perspective. Plus, when she looked at Jesse, she couldn't help seeing Amanda at that age. She loved all her children equally, and anyone who said differently would live to regret it, but there would always be a special place in her heart for the scrappy little blonde. Both of them.

"No, baby, it wasn't a wallaby," she said, smiling on the side of her face not covered by the washcloth. "Mommy just . . . just had an accident, that's all. I'm okay."

When Amanda's hand came down on top of hers, Olivia glanced up, expecting to find another smile, or at least some of the amusement her detective usually expressed when one of the kids said something cute or funny. It was often Amanda's sense of humor that reminded Olivia to laugh at all. But rather than the blonde's signature dimple, she discovered a pale cheek, a clenched jaw, and a stoniness she wasn't used to seeing outside of work or during the most difficult of court cases. Once again, Amanda squeezed her hand so hard it hurt, but Olivia didn't complain or even react. She could take it.

Noticing the tight grip, Amanda suddenly released it and rubbed the back of Olivia's hand, knuckles to wrist. She toyed with the watch there, twisting it side to side and tapping a fingernail on the crystal that must have set her back a few hundred dollars, at least. And all because her mother hated Olivia so.

For a moment, Olivia wondered if Amanda had any idea that Beth Anne was responsible for the shattered watch, but she quickly nixed the thought—why whisper the confession in her ear, if Amanda already knew? And what did it matter now, anyway? That awful woman was gone, the storm had passed. Perhaps they could salvage the day after all. Enjoy a little sun.

"I love it," Olivia reiterated, as Amanda continued fidgeting with the watch strap, tracing a thumb back and forth over the fine leather, dark as blackberries. This time, a faint smile settled on the blonde's lips. It widened even further when Olivia added, "And you."

"Me too." Amanda squeezed Olivia's wrist just below the Breitling, but the pressure was light and affectionate, tempered as carefully as glass. She reached into the pocket of her robe and withdrew Olivia's cell phone, purposefully putting it aside on the end table next to the sofa. She turned her back to it, glanced sidelong at the kids to confirm they were preoccupied—Matilda drowsed at Olivia's breast, patting it in time with the heartbeat below—then silently mouthed, "I'm sorry."

"Me too," Olivia mouthed back.

They were savoring the moment, exchanging sweet, tentative smiles and caresses, when the smoke alarm went off in the kitchen. The long-forgotten casserole was burning.

"Oh, shit," Amanda said, switching the washcloth from her own hand to Olivia's, and springing up from the armrest. She groaned and held her side, waddling toward the kitchen in her overlong robe, kicking the flaps out as she went.

Startled by the noise, Matilda sat bolt upright in Olivia's lap and, with the absolute clarity of everyday usage, proclaimed, "Oh, shit."

"I'm sorry!" called out a retreating voice, thick on the Southern drawl. The bleating alarm and Frannie's mournful howls censored most of the profanity-laced rant that followed, as Amanda banged things around in the oven and flapped something else overhead.

Meanwhile, in the living room, Olivia tried to suppress the chorus of "oh shits" that all three children were sounding in turn, each delighted by her inability to shush them without laughing until she snorted.

By the time it ended, it was both the worst and best Christmas Olivia had ever celebrated.

. . .